Authors: David Tindell
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wisconsin
T
he first time
Jim stepped into a sparring ring for real, he knew fear. It was at his very first tournament, back in his college days, a big event in Dubuque. He had just passed his first belt test and wore his orange belt tied around his freshly-laundered
dobok,
which didn’t take long to become saturated with sweat once he put on the
hogu
vest. Jim remembered that he was actually trembling a bit as he was called into the ring by the referee. Facing him was a fighter wearing a yellow belt, one rank above his, and the logo on his dobok jacket said he was from a club in Peoria, Illinois. To Jim he looked like an experienced fighter, moving very smoothly, and in fact he’d won his forms division earlier in the day, with Jim finishing fourth, out of the running for a trophy.
Could that really have been thirty years ago? Jim thought back to that tournament as he stretched, working out the kinks as he prepared for the sparring competition in Rice Lake. Some days he felt every one of those thirty years, but truth be told, he was probably in almost as good physical condition now as he was then. He was about twenty pounds heavier, but he’d been pretty slender coming out of high school, and in those days they didn’t do much weight training, even in college. Being lighter back then didn’t help him in the ring that day, but being lucky did. The guy from Peoria landed a side kick right away that rocked Jim and put him behind 1-0, but then he got a little too cute and left himself open for Jim’s right roundhouse kick to the head. The knockout surprised Jim even more than the guy on the receiving end. Jim’s luck ran out in the semifinal bout, which he lost badly, but he came back to win the third-place bout in overtime and went home with a nice trophy. That trophy was packed away in a box somewhere, but the memory of winning it, and the feeling of pride and satisfaction he had then, were still there.
Today’s competition wouldn’t involve any knockouts, at least not intentionally. Since starting his training in isshin-ryu five years earlier, Jim competed only in karate-style point sparring, not the full-contact taekwondo variety. After competing in a couple dozen full-contact events, Jim certainly wasn’t scared of that style, but he didn’t feel like tempting fate too much, either. He was at the age now where he competed in “senior” divisions, and in taekwondo that might mean fighting guys as young as thirty-five. For a guy who’d just turned fifty, that was asking for trouble in full-contact. Point sparring allowed only light contact and emphasized speed and quickness, and frequently the larger tournaments had fifty-plus age divisions. This one today wasn’t large enough for that, but he’d sized up the field already and although there were a couple guys who appeared to be around forty, he figured his chances were good.
Jim hadn’t been this far north in Wisconsin for some time, and this was his first visit to Rice Lake, a town of about nine thousand, halfway between Eau Claire and Superior in the northwest corner of the state. He’d met the host, a high-ranking black belt named Anthony Bronson, on the tournament circuit a few years ago and got on his mailing list. Finishing up his stretching now, Jim wished he’d gotten his usual eight hours of sleep instead of only seven. The little things made a difference in competition.
Despite that, things had gone pretty well so far. His three-section staff kata earned him first place in his weapons division, and he finished second in the empty-hand forms competition. After that came a couple hours of helping to judge the color-belt rings, and now finally the black belt sparring was beginning. There would be four other fighters in Jim’s senior division, the youngest about forty. The winner would fight the young-adult winner for the grand championship. If everything moved along smoothly, they’d be done by about three o’clock and he could be on the road and home by nine.
“Excuse me, it’s Jim, right?” He recognized the Italian accent, got a whiff of the intriguing mix of perfume and perspiration, and turned around.
“Yes. Hi, Gina.”
She was about forty, her dark shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail, and her gi fit snugly enough to reveal a nice figure, with the brown belt accentuating a trim waist. Jim had been one of the judges for Gina’s rings, and she’d done well, displaying excellent balance and technical expertise. What put her over the top was the confidence she showed in the ring. She won the empty-hand competition and finished a very close second in weapons with her kata featuring the
tonfa
, a weapon resembling a police baton that was not often seen in tournaments.
She flashed a dazzling smile. “I just wanted to thank you for the scores you gave me, and the tip from Green Bay.”
“No problem,” he said. Four months ago, Jim had judged Gina’s ring at the Harris Memorial, one of the state’s premier events, and mentioned after her event that she seemed a bit tentative. Obviously, she’d taken that to heart.
“Your weapons kata was terrific,” she said. “How long have you been working with the three-section staff?”
“About a year,” he said. He didn’t agree with her openly, but he knew that he’d really nailed the kata today. This was the first time he’d used this particular weapon in competition, and everything clicked. “I thought I might have a decent chance if I didn’t brain myself with it,” he added with a smile.
“It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anybody use that weapon at a tournament. It looks difficult.”
“It’s a challenge,” he said. Then, thinking why not, he said, “Maybe I could show you a couple things with it later.”
The smile came back. “That would be great. Well, good luck in the sparring.” She bowed, and he returned it. As she walked away, she looked back and smiled again.
Jim finished putting on his sparring boots and was working on his forearm guards when Anthony Bronson came over. Jim had competed against him before, but today, as host, Tony was sitting out the competition. That was good; Bronson was well-known as one of the top senior karate fighters in the state. “I see you’ve made Gina’s acquaintance,” he said with a grin.
“Yes, she’s a nice gal. From Ashland, isn’t she?”
“That’s right,” Tony said. “Master Lewitzke has a nice club up there. Ever been up that way?”
“Close. When I was a kid, we came up to Bayfield for a week one summer. Went through Ashland, I think. Pretty remote country.”
“Yes, it is, but it has its charms.”
“Gina is definitely one of them.”
“You should ask her out. She’s single, I hear.”
“Is that right?”
The senior division sparring came down to Jim and a fighter from St. Paul named Bill Rich, shorter and about ten years younger, wiry and very active in the ring, favoring hand strikes, worth one point. Jim’s height and his taekwondo background led him to prefer kicks, worth two. He’d watched Rich’s semifinal bout closely, and when Tony, acting as center judge and referee, called the two of them into the ring for the title bout, Jim was focused and ready. Just as Rich had done in his first bout, he started this one with a leaping lunge for a hand strike to the head, but Jim dropped to one knee, raised his left arm in a high block and shot his right fist into Rich’s chest. “Point!” Tony yelled, and the fighters separated. The four corner judges agreed, and Jim was up 1-0.
When the bout resumed, Jim took advantage of his lead and went for a kick. Rich easily evaded Jim’s right roundhouse kick to the head, but Jim anticipated correctly that he would move backward, toward the side of the ring, and Jim followed with a left turning side kick that landed squarely in Rich’s abdomen. “Point!”
Trailing 3-0 now, Rich had little choice but to be aggressive. The first fighter to five points would win the bout. In karate point-sparring, Jim had found, few bouts ever lasted the two-minute distance. Full-contact taekwondo sparring was usually a battle of attrition that went the full two rounds, four minutes of hard fighting, but karate bouts were fast, with explosions of high-energy strikes and blocks separated by lulls when one fighter would stalk the other. Jim had been able to transition easily into this style and his dojo was one that spent a lot of time sparring. It paid off again today. Rich got a point with a hand strike to Jim’s side, but Jim finished him off with a right roundhouse to the side of the head, with just enough contact to score, after feinting a roundhouse to the side to draw Rich’s guard down.
Jim’s knee was starting to feel the strain of the competition, but there was one more bout to go, this one for the grand championship, matching him against the winner of the younger men’s division, a lanky, blonde-haired college student from Eau Claire named Derek Saunders. Jim had never seen the kid fight before today and from what he’d seen, he knew he’d have his hands full. The kid had a cocksure attitude and he backed it up with a very aggressive fighting style.
Tony pulled out all the stops for the climactic event of his tournament. Jim and Saunders entered the center ring as the roller rink’s light show bathed them in swirling colors and the speakers blared the theme from
Rocky.
Tony himself acted as the referee, and the four corner judges were some of the highest-ranked instructors from northern Wisconsin, all of whom Jim had met at various stops on the tournament circuit. Jim glanced over toward the scorekeepers’ table and caught a glimpse of Gina, holding a stopwatch as the timekeeper. She gave him a smile and a quick thumbs up. Tony came over to him and put the red ribbon around Jim’s belt in the back. Each judge had a six-inch square of red cloth in one hand and a white one in the other, which they’d use to signal when they awarded points. “Be careful with this guy,” Tony whispered. “He gets a little frisky.”
“I noticed,” Jim said, and the fighters came to the stripes marked on the mat, facing each other.
“Grand championship bout!” Tony shouted. “Fighters, face me,
kitsukay.
” Jim and Saunders bowed to Tony, then bowed to each other with the next command. Jim sank slightly into his fighting stance, left foot forward, leaning back slightly on his right foot, hands up.
He kept his breathing steady. He had a shot at his first-ever grand championship, and this was no time to be nervous.
“
Hajimay!”
Tony yelled, and as he brought down his right arm in between the fighters, Saunders attacked. The kid was lightning quick, unleashing a flurry of kicks. He was wearing a black gi and boots, making it tougher for Jim to track the legs, but he was able to block the first, the second, the third, and then Jim barely had a split second to register a fourth, a backspin whistling in toward the right side of his head. Jim tried to bring his right arm up in a high block but he was a millisecond too slow, and Saunders’ booted heel slid across the top of Jim’s forearm and crashed at nearly full speed into Jim’s helmet above the right temple.
It was like an artillery shell went off inside his skull. Jim staggered to his left and had to go down on one knee. He shook his head, and his vision cleared, enough to see Tony pushing his right fist into his left palm, the signal for excessive contact.
“No points!” He turned to Saunders, who was dancing lightly. “Excess contact. This is a warning. Next time there’s a point deduction.”
Jim slowly stood up, shaking his head again. Across the ring, Saunders waited, loose and confident. Tony came over to Jim, asking, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“Back to the center, fighters!”
There was no sign of apology from Saunders, which was unusual. Sportsmanship levels were always high at these tournaments, but every now and then a hotshot thought he was above the rules. Jim knew he’d have to be careful with this guy, but he also knew he couldn’t afford to show any sign of weakness.
“Hajimay!”
Saunders danced in, bobbing and weaving, while Jim held his ground. Saunders lashed out with a left side kick which Jim evaded by stepping back, and then he ducked just in the nick of time as Saunders rocketed a right backfist at the spot where Jim’s head had been an instant earlier. Even with his helmet on, Jim heard the swish of air as the gloved hand whipped overhead. Jim pivoted on his left foot and put everything he had into a right turning side kick, loosing a loud
kiai
yell as he launched the kick. His heel connected solidly with Saunders’ exposed abdomen. The air whooshed out of the kid’s lungs as he collapsed around the kick and was lifted half a foot into the air before landing hard on his rump. The crowd issued a collective groan but there were also more than a few cheers.
“No points! Excessive contact!” Tony gave the signal and then went over to Saunders, who had rolled over to his hands and knees, wheezing. Damn, Jim thought, he’d lost control with that one. A shot like that might get him disqualified. He had to stay focused.
Saunders got slowly to his feet, holding the right ribcage with his left hand. “Can you continue?” Tony asked.
The kid looked over at Jim, then nodded. Beneath the mask, though, his eyes looked a little different than they had at the start of the bout. Fear, maybe? Well, Jim thought, perhaps it was about time.
“Okay, guys, let’s dial it down, all right?” Tony said. “Fighters to the center. Hajimay!”
Saunders was cautious now, and Jim sensed it was time to take control of the fight. The kid was protecting his midsection, and Jim took advantage by faking a right roundhouse kick to the kid’s side, pulling it back at the last split-second as Saunders came down with a double forearm block and striking instead to the head. The toe of Jim’s boot ticked against Saunders’ forehead. “Point!” Every judge held up two fingers and pointed at Jim. “Two points red!” Tony shouted to the scorekeeper. “Fighters to center. Hajimay!”
Saunders came over the top with a lunging right jab at Jim’s head. Jim parried with a left high block and lashed out with a left side kick, connecting lightly on Saunders’ right ribcage. The kid winced and clutched himself again as two of the corner judges yelled “Point!”
“Two points red!” Tony yelled. He looked at Saunders, who nodded gamely that he was ready. He wasn’t bouncing around anymore, though. Tony looked over at Jim. “I almost called excess contact on that one, Jim. Take it easy.”